


Exploits

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Tongues Will Wag [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4636638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela knew the Hero of Ferelden. Hawke is all ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exploits

"The Hero of Ferelden was a fine woman."

Isabela's gotten tired of playing with Bear, then. Idly, Hawke wonders what sort of lewd messages she'll find in her journal the next time she opens it. She doesn't dare record any feelings she may or may not have about certain…women…in it anymore, for fear that Isabela, who disregards all sorts of personal and legal boundaries at the slightest whim, will read it and run out on her.

Last time, she drew a flower that looked remarkably like a cunt. She's sort of an artist, is Isabela, if she's bored enough. Hawke's sort of sappy about the flower. She fancies it's _her_ cunt, since Isabela's been looking at it a lot lately, anyway, so maybe it was on her mind?

Pah. That's bordering on sentiment. Dangerous territory these days.

Hawke scribbles off a signature on the tax documents Varric sent over and lays down her quill right when Isabela's hand lands on her shoulder. So _that's_ how it is, then. She has to work to keep her face straight; the pads of Isabela's fingers drift across her shoulder until they're at the back of her neck, a feather-light touch beneath her collar, just at the dip of her spine.

It's one of the first things Hawke learned about her when they started sleeping together: Isabela knows exactly where to touch, apply the slightest pressure, to make a person all quivery and senseless. Which is a problem, just now, because Isabela's started some game with that line, and Hawke needs to focus if she's to find out what it is.

She also needs to focus on making sure Isabela remembered to close the door this time, because she's not fantastic about that.

"Was she?" she manages, easing back in her chair and tipping her head against the back. She gets an upside-down view of Isabela, the firelight of the study catching the glint of the stud on her chin—the slant of her smirk, too, before she goes all wide-eyed and coy and thoughtful again. Hawke risks a quick glance at the door: closed. No telling if it's locked, but it's late, and if anyone's wandering about the house and nosing around then maybe they deserve to get an eyeful.

Isabela's hand slips around to touch Hawke's bared neck, callouses catching the spot right under her jaw that can make her whine if teeth are applied just right. Her breath hitches at the touch. Isabela, with her hand cupped gently beneath Hawke's chin, notices.

"Mmm," she goes on, and her hand doesn't move for a long, painful moment while Hawke listens to the easy drawl of her voice. "Lush little thing. A dwarf, you know—all curves, sturdy muscle. A rogue, like you. Knew how to use her hands."

"You're telling me that you really… _knew_ the Hero of Ferelden?" Hawke laughs—suitably airy with her feigned disbelief. She doesn't doubt that Isabela could know everyone she puts her mind to. "I thought that was a joke."

"Oh, I knew her." Isabela's dreamy voice sharpens. "Would you like to hear how?"

Sometimes, Isabela is too outrageous even for her. She stares up at the raised brow and tries to make her mouth form the appropriate seductive response, and fails, the air in her throat catching again.

Isabela lets her go, but only so that she can prowl around the edge of the chair, catlike—like no cat Hawke's ever seen, but one of those powerful, deadly beasts that roam the mountains, the kind she fervently hopes she only ever sees between the covers of a book. Braced against the desk, Isabela presses her booted foot to the leg of Hawke's chair and pushes it back, making room. She settles her ass right on that paperwork Hawke's just signed, and Hawke—because she hates paperwork—does not stop her.

"She was a mouthy little thing." She reaches forward, just the sweep of her fingers to brush Hawke's fringe aside, drag a little touch down her cheek. Hawke tries not to shiver, fails. Isabela's hand stops at the hollow of her throat; she must feel the mad stuttering of Hawke's heart, fluttering beneath her skin, vulnerable in the gap of her bones.

"She wanted me to teach her to duel," she goes on, flashing a fond smile. She fingers the trim of Hawke's robe, slipping it aside to reveal more skin than is already bared. "I like to know my students, thought we'd play a game of cards. Found out later from Zevran how much she loathes cards." She chuckles, deep and throaty, and traces the line of Hawke's collarbone—all the way to where it ends on her shoulder, pushing the robe off.

"She asked if she couldn't come back to my ship instead. Smart as you please, her eyes big and innocent." The robe is still hanging on, barely covering Hawke's breast, but Isabela takes care of that, her hand brushing the silk aside to touch the curve of flesh instead. She takes the weight of it in the palm of her hand, and Hawke lets her head fall back against the chair—but she doesn't stop watching Isabela, the way her lips move around the words, not even when her nipple is pinched lightly between thumb and forefinger and the entire left side of her body goes over goosebumps.

"Should have seen how Zevran twitched. I asked him along, of course, for old time's sake." She slides her hand down Hawke's belly, and Hawke stares at the way the firelight catches on all her glittering jewelry, warming Isabela's skin with gold. The fall of her hair is even darker in contrast. She's a _sight_ , the image of restraint, half-heartedly playing with Hawke's body with just the stray touch of her fingers while she reminisces so, and Hawke can't work out whether she wants her more in the here and now or to go on and tell her every sordid detail of that old affair.

"So you had both of them," Hawke says, and her voice comes out light and scolding—just a little breathy on _both_ , when Isabela presses her thumb across the cut of Hawke's hipbone. "At once. You insatiable thing."

Isabela smiles; she slides down to kneel on the floor, between Hawke's legs, gets fistfuls of her hips and drags her forward to the edge of the chair. Hawke feels properly debauched, and their clothes have not even come sufficiently off yet.

"Is that so wrong?" Isabela breathes, the gust of her words tickling across Hawke's stomach. Her other hand comes into play now, reaching up to slide the robe all the way open. The sash falls by the wayside. She leans in to touch her lips to the inside of Hawke's thigh; Hawke feels the quick bite of her teeth, the shivery stroke of her tongue, and she can't help but arch her back, her breath coming a bit harsher for just a moment while she wrestles with her composure.

"She wanted to taste me," Isabela murmurs, "while Zevran fucked her." She lands another thorny kiss just above the rise of Hawke's hip; there'll be a mark in the morning, remnant of this hazy, overheated dream. Isabela tugs at her nipple, and she tries to keep her eyes wide open, but the riptide of Isabela's voice keeps pulling her under, stunning her.

"She had such incredible focus." Hawke jolts, barely strangles a moan; Isabela's lips move directly against her cunt now, the words almost lost in her swollen flesh. She speaks just loud enough for Hawke to hear. "Even with Zevran using every trick in his considerable arsenal on her, she got me off."

She gives a long, broad, slow lick of her tongue, parting Hawke all the way to her clit, and Hawke, at long last, lets out a short groan, her hands clenched on the arms of her chair. She does it again, and Hawke wildly imagines her hands fisted in Isabela's hair, keeping her clever mouth pressed tight to her flesh—she would still find a way to talk, knowing her, pretty honeyed words painting pictures that make Hawke's blood _burn_ with want—

"She tasted so sweet, when she came up to kiss me." She sucks Hawke's clit gently between her lips, and for a short, airless moment, Hawke thinks she'll come as soon as Isabela releases her hold. She doesn't, but she does _throb_ , the ache between her thighs beating like a drum. Isabela has hardly touched her, hardly helped her along at all, but she's already quivering for release like a teenager.

"And the way she sounded." Isabela chuckles, her tongue dipping briefly deeper in Hawke's folds, tracing the ring of muscle at her entrance. Hawke whimpers like a begging mabari, and it's not flattering or sweet but full of violent need. Isabela's fingers slide in to replace her tongue, two up to the first knuckle just barely inside, and her tongue sweeps up to flick playfully at Hawke's clit.

It's almost painful, that sharp lick, and then Isabela presses a soft, warm kiss there instead and Hawke wants to scream, wants to sob, wants to come out of her skin because it's too tight and close and much—

"Her thighs were a thing of beauty." Isabela sounds almost wistful, but Hawke can hardly tell through the roar of her blood in her ears. "I tasted every bit of them I could manage." She pauses, hums, gives another sharp lick. Her fingers stir lazily, sliding deeper into Hawke's cunt. Hawke twitches a little at every motion, shocked by each touch.

Isabela works in earnest now, her tongue lapping steadily at Hawke's clit, her fingers rocking slowly in and out. Hawke arches up to meet her rhythm, panting, abandoning all attempts at dignity, and Isabela drives her onward, taking her mouth away for a moment to say, "Come on, sweet thing, let me hear you—"

Hawke cries out until she comes, her heels digging into the back of Isabela's tunic, her thighs pressed tight around Isabela's ears. Isabela's tongue keeps at her until her last shivers and twitches subside, until her limbs relax in boneless defeat, and she's a mess sprawled out in this chair that she has to conduct business in, Isabela bright and sly at her feet.

At her feet, but always on top, somehow.

Hawke kicks back the chair, making more room with strength she doesn't have, and she catches the brief widening of Isabela's eyes, firelight dancing in them, before she tumbles down and bears Isabela to the rug before the hearth.

She doesn't waste time. Unlike Isabela, she runs out of pretty words sooner or later, and this is it, all the language gone out of her head, nothing left to her but her hands and body and mindless desires. She drags Isabela's smalls down over her boots, tosses them away without looking where she's throwing, and shoulders between Isabela's legs, desperate to taste her.

Her lips already glisten, wet with the evidence of her arousal, and Hawke takes a vicious pleasure in knowing that she was affected by all that, too—that while she was controlled and teasing and terrible her thighs were pressed together, smudging her own slick over her skin. She moans heartily when Hawke licks her open, no shame, and though Hawke knows she's got a far worse end than this coming (there's bad luck and then there's _bad_ luck and hers is the worst kind), she'd like to drown in the sound of that curling pleasure, Isabela's words giving way to raw feeling. The buckles of her boots dig into Hawke's back, tiny pricks of cold and pain, and she reaches down to grip her delicate fingers tight in Hawke's hair.

Hawke can hardly breathe, but it doesn't matter. Her hands are full of Isabela's ass and the taste of her is in Hawke's mouth, salty like the ocean she loves and heady like storm clouds. Hawke flutters her tongue just below the bundle of Isabela's nerves and Isabela's breath catches before her throat spills out a long low groan and her thighs lock up around Hawke's shoulders and she pulls so desperately at Hawke's hair that for a moment—too short and too long both—she really _can't_ breathe.

When Isabela's legs relax, Hawke shrugs her from her shoulders, grinning, and goes to work unbuckling her boots.

"Stop that," Isabela protests drowsily, but she doesn't kick. "I can't walk back to Lowtown in bare feet. Do you have any idea what muck's in those streets?"

Hawke pauses, her hand wrapped around Isabela's bare foot. "Oh, are you out of stories, then? I thought I could get you to tell me another."

Isabela sits up, and for a moment, Hawke thinks she really _will_ go—a shame, really, she's usually good for more than one round, and Hawke will take all the rounds she can give—but Isabela leans in and kisses her deep, her wicked mouth opening Hawke's, her blunt teeth catching at Hawke's bottom lip.

"I have another," she says, sliding the robe the rest of the way down Hawke's arms. "I have a dozen."

Hawke would listen to every last one.


End file.
